Circling Back: Double Exposure as a Way of Seeing

Recently, a circling back occurred. Like a migrating bird—sometimes flying thousands of miles to return to a place of beginning—I found myself back at a place of discovery, years after first passing through it. Certain ways of seeing never leave us; they wait patiently for our attention.

My fascination with photography began in art college as a side pursuit, then receded as I committed to painting. The camera returned later—first to document my work, then quickly as a way of making art itself. Travel intensified the bond, and street photography became a passion. Equipment improved as the curiosity deepened.

Early on, while working with models in my studio, a mistake changed everything. In 2004, an unadvanced frame produced an unintended overlap—a happy accident. The images were dreamlike, resistant to easy labels, and charged with meaning. I remember the small thrill of recognition, the feeling that something generous and alive had entered the room, asking only that I allow it.

Historically, double exposure did not begin as an artistic strategy. In the early days of film photography, failing to advance the film caused two images to share a single frame. What appeared to be an error soon revealed expressive potential, and photographers began to use the technique intentionally. Two famous men in particular come to mind; Man Ray,  (American/French; August 27, 1890 – November 18, 1976) and Jerry Uelsmann, (American, June 11, 1934 – April 4, 2022).

At its core, double exposure allows two moments, spaces, or ideas to coexist. Rather than replacing one another, they merge—sometimes harmoniously, sometimes in tension. This is what draws me to the form. My work has long circled themes of memory, interior life, time, and the porous boundary between inner and outer worlds. Double exposure feels less like a trick and more like a visual philosophy, rooted in curiosity and wonder. The images feel like surrealist poems.

Ultimately, double exposure is less about technique than perception. It mirrors lived experience itself: layered, overlapping, incomplete. Past and present, figure and environment, thought and sensation—none exist in isolation. Double exposure makes that condition visible.

Many years passed while my creative energy flowed into other forms—painting, writing, design, graphics—while photography remained a steady undercurrent. Now, like migrating birds returning to a remembered place of sustenance and joy, I find myself once again in the quiet magic of double exposure. It feels timeless—less a return than a reunion.

For the time being.